Spurlock stepped into the room. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. She looked at him curiously. Or perhaps my father once. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. The close-fitting round gown, if a little oldfashioned with its very narrow waist and wide skirts, was becoming on a full figure, and the low décolletage, unencumbered by any form of covering, exposed a good deal of bosom. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly.
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